


Redirection

by bluestalking



Series: Amelia Pond and the Mastersmiths [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-19
Updated: 2010-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestalking/pseuds/bluestalking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Ending rewrite for EoT.] <i>"Don't be clever," the Master says, rolling his eyes, and raises the gun, and shoots.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Redirection

"No!" the Doctor says. "I _can_ help you. I found a way. While you had me tied up, I thought of it! There were too many of you before, but it's just you now, and I have a _way_. I can fix you!"

"No," says the Master. "No, wrong, you can't _fix_ me, it's not _me_ that's broken, no, it's the _universe!_ You see," he says hysterically, "you see, the _universe_ is broken! I'm the only thing right!"

He shakes his finger at the Time Lords, receding, like he can encompass _everythingness_ in a single gesture, but the Doctor is being his perennially annoying self, and he just keeps looking at the Master like the Master isn't making a point, with those big brown serious cow-eyes and that down-turned disappointment mouth. He seems to be more frightened than usual, for a little variety, but he's still got that _look_.

Bahhh. When the Master looked into the Untempered Schism, he got drumbeats and insanity and _lifetimes_ of bad haircuts. All the Doctor got was an agonizing penchant for quipping and and a hero complex worse than Harry Potter's.

"Don't look at me like that either, you--" he says, directing his waving finger at the Doctor, and the Doctor says, "_No!_ I understand, it was in the prophecy all along! You have to let me help you!"

The Master sighs through his nose, and starts to open his eyes for a sufficiently derogatory response, and--

_HUNGRY._

He wrenches in on himself, roaring, bright electric, ghastly. He shudders out of it gasping, the words lost with his lips, his eyes round even in their lids.

"You're still dying," the Doctor says. The world howling around him, the whole of history at their command, and the damned Doctor still seems to forget about everything but the moment he's making up in front of him, bloody self-interested melodramatic altruist, moment after moment after moment after--

"It's made from death," the Master spits out. "All this body can _do_ is die."

"I know!" says the Doctor. "I know! But I can--_I'm_ dying, Master! I am, but I can--" He makes those precise little motions with his hands that always mean the science is dead wrong but he'll make it work anyway. "I think I can give you--I think I can give you a life. I can turn that body--real."

"Oh yeah?" the Master gasps, trying to regain his feet before they vanish out from under him.

"If we're mind-melded when I--when I go," the Doctor says, and the Master absolutely gets a little tingle of pleasure out of the quiver in his voice, "I think I can--give you my next life. I think I can make you real."

The Master stares at him, and then remembers to make it humorously incredulous, because really, they don't need _everybody_ going all serious on them now.

"You? Want to _what?"_

"I want to save you," the Doctor says desperately.

"Who will you save, Doctor?" the Master asks, and he means to be cool and biting, but no, he's shaking just as hard as the Doctor is. He is ragged and a skeleton, and God only knows (would know, if there were one) why he's been wearing these same dreadful excuses for clothes since he was born. He's eaten hobos with better wardrobes. "A killer, a psychopath, the ruler of worlds? Your _enemy?_ I can still hear them, you know," he says, grinning. "I can hear them, Doctor, do you think it'll stop just because I know where it _came from? Do you think I'll stop?"_

"I think," says the Doctor gently. The Master is distracted from his words by the way he bites at the cuts on his lip. "That I can make the drums go away."

The Master looks up sharply. "Who will I be without the drums?" he says. He's more terrified of dying than he's ever been before. And the Master has always made an art of the fear of dying.

"I don't know," the Doctor breathes. "Who will I be without you?"

"Who will you be when it's over, you mean?" the Master shoots back. "You've got the easy part in this plan. Think you'll still want me--want me alive when you--_you_\--" He waves impatiently at the Doctor's current (skinny, silly hair, those shoes are good for nothing but fashion, _cow eyes_) "--are dead?"

The Doctor frowns, and looks oh-so-serious. He's going to come spewing out with something sentimental, the Master can tell. There's a certain charm in predictability, sure, but the Master wishes that _just sometimes--_

"Master--" the Doctor starts--_mm_, the Master closes his eyes, he does like hearing his name-- "Master, I will care in every lifetime. Don't you see that?"

"You're mad," the Master says simply, and bursts into giggles. Isn't _he_ ironic.

"Maybe," says the Doctor, which shuts the Master up for just a second.

The gap closes up behind them. The Time Lords are gone. Gallifrey is receding into unbeing in the Earth sky. Old man locked in the cupboard. The Doctor still won't look away. Big damn cow eyes.

_Dun-dun-dun-dun._

Drumbeat's still here.

The Master sighs, through his mouth, and pretends it isn't fear.

"I understand," says the Doctor, "I do, I understand you're afraid--"

"Don't be stupid," the Master says, unnerved.

"--I'm afraid," the Doctor says, because of course they're sharing _feelings_ now. "But I can help you. All I've ever wanted to do was help you. _Please."_

He holds out the gun, offering, not pointing. And a martyr complex on top of everything. Peachy. The old man in the glass cupboard is banging on the glass going _Noooooo_ or some such nonsense.

The Master hesitates. He feels himself dying, and that's something to be afraid of, but so is whatever bloody unknown the Doctor's letting him in for.

"If we're linked when you shoot, it could kill us both," the Doctor says. Pshh. If this is the Doctor's version of getting high on power, the Master really _does_ need to stick around, just to show him a thing or two about power-madness. This isn't power-madness! This is just--sloppy! It's practically _infuriating,_ it's so pathetic.

He takes the gun.

"What if I'm still everything you hate on the other side?" he asks, eyes narrowed.

"Then you'll get to try for killing me twice in one day," the Doctor answers, shrugging up, pulling his mouth down like, hey, it's not such a bad idea.

"Don't be clever," the Master says, rolling his eyes, and raises the gun, and shoots.

The old man in the cupboard is making a real fuss, but the Master ignores all that. He pays attention where it counts. The Master catches the Doctor as he goes down, bloody face strained, hair still a bit stupid. Puffier than usual. Not the point.

The Master hauls the Doctor's weak-rigid body until they're both kneeling, more or less, though the Doctor is shaking and the Master is bearing all his weight. But they're forehead to forehead, hand to temple. The Doctor's fingers shiver against the Master's skin.

_He's going to die before he can even try it._

The Master doesn't know if that's a comforting thought or not. Either way, he has to work hard not to laugh about it.

"Are you _trying?"_ he snarls finally, to keep from giggling out loud, and the Doctor's mind pours in against his, like it's been waiting at the door for a bloody invite. It's agonizing. Soothing. Familiar.

(Familiar things are frequently both.)

The Doctor's grinning. Or he's baring his teeth, but there's never been a big difference with this one, has there? Very catty. This Doctor, the Master thinks, would have liked the Cheetah World a bit better than the Doctor who showed up.

But this Doctor is dying, isn't he?

"Say goodbye," the Doctor gasps, in front of him, inside him, inside himself where the Master is. "Say goodbye to the drums."

The Master knocks--_dundundundun_\--against the side of the Doctor's head, and he's just about to smirk and then it all comes through, bright light boiling around him and burning into him until his mind is _so full so hot so endless_ and it was a _bad idea_ from the very beginning and he's _angry angry angry angry--_

 

When the Master wakes up, it can only be a few seconds after. The man across from him, who's really too big for that suit, far too big, it's doing awful things to the buttons, the man across from him looks as though he probably gets very awkward at dinner parties. And his hair is equally stupid to the one who just--

The Master stops thinking for a minute.

_Just listen._

He blinks until he isn't almost crying. There's nothing in his head. No drums. He isn't dying. There's no hunger. There's just him and--

"It wasn't just the next one," he mutters, blinking blinking blinking, and it's a bit of a queasy feeling, he's got to swallow the idea down a few times before it'll stick. He touches his chest between his hearts and wonders crazily if he's only got control of one of them now.

He wonders if this is going to mean he actually _misses_ that pinstriped prancer.

He wonders if _that_ means he will have to kill this awkward new thing.

"HEAD!" says the awkward new thing. "LEGS ARMS NOSE--"

"You've got all the parts," the Master says snidely. "At least so far as the eye can tell. And no, you're not _ginger."_

The awkward new thing pulls down on his stupid hair as though the Master's word is not _good enough_ for him (honestly, the Master feels wounded), and looks pleased with himself. For not having grown orange hair.

Gigantic ego. A spectacular change for the Doctor, that.

The old man is weeping in the cupboard, which is annoying, so the Master gets up to let him out so he can be made to _go away._ The Master sees when he reaches the cupboard that he has left a dangerous, radioactive nozzle open. Oops.

He turns that off, and discovers that it's not as hard as it ought to be to rip the extremely protective door off its hinges. He leans into the old weeping man's extremely protective cubicle, and says, "You're dull and aged. Thanks for the gun. Now, go away."

The awkward new thing is still counting off body parts behind him. The Master will definitely, definitely have to kill him.

"You don't mind I use that gun _again,_ do you?" he asks the old man, who hasn't managed to get very far even though the Master _told_ him he could go. Even opened the _door._

Ugh.

The old man must go, the new awkward _counting_ thing (the Master just got rid of counting!) must go, and if he could get it out of him, maybe the old bit of Doctor could go too, instead of sitting there inside him feeling--_cutesy_ and _warm_ or whatever this is.

"And," the awkward new thing concludes cheerfully, "I have a Master!"

The Master thinks, _Mmm._

The Master thinks, _On the_ other _hand._

The Master thinks, _It's always good to try new things._

He spins around to face the awkward new thing. The awkward new thing really needs a new suit. Something dapper. They should shop.

"So where's your TARDIS, d'you think?" the Master asks. "I'd just _love_ to see the stars."


End file.
